


The Not-So-Curious Case of What Happens When You Put Every Living Winchester in a Room With Vengeance

by S J McQuillan (sjmcquillan)



Series: A Winchester Gospel Entry [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Between Episodes, Resugere Verse, Winchester Gospels According S. O'Leahy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjmcquillan/pseuds/S%20J%20McQuillan
Summary: Sometimes it's never just a typical day in the Bunker.A scene based on the prompt wherein what happens when a certain someone is suddenly back in the Winchester's lives, as narrated by self-nominated Winchester historian, S. O'Leahy.





	

 

He stands calmly, knowing what he knows about the bunker; what he knows about himself.  And while he looks like he's just staring off ahead slightly while being partially turned away  from the sink, sipping the remains of his coffee before he cleans the cup and sets it on the folded towel to air dry, every nerve is firing.  Every muscle he'll soon put into action is coiling.  Slowly.  And it was kick-started by feeling the difference in the air around him, a skill honed since after a particular life event in his childhood.  That is to say, a fucking long time.  But it's one of many skills that has saved his adorable ass thousands of times.

And there's a clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach to accompany.  He hasn't felt that in years, but he pushes that from the forefront.  Because those skills?  They've already inventoried what improvised weapon is in reach in addition to the few he's always kept on himself.  Calculated the time it would take to employ each one and he's a micrometer away from each attack cascading upon the intruder.

It's not Crowley, he always likes to say 'Hello.'

It's not Lucifer, they've made sure he can't slither back in and torment Sammy.

It's not some other angel than those welcome here.

It's not a Men of Letter, because they've recently finished an overhaul of security based on the information Sam and Mom pulled from the Brits- they liked their bunker being their sanctuary.  And Dean likes the 'Fuck You' it sends them when they try to contact them.  He tries not to smile too much, but it sells him being lost in his thoughts.  To lure the intruder into a false sense of security born of successful stealth.

And while the temp around him has cooled, he knows it's because of him and not the intruder.   This is his home.  This is the home of his family.  And some soon-to-be sorry sonuvabitch wants to mess with that.  Not today, pal.  Not Fucking Today.

He can faintly hear boots.  He's not the only one with a particular skill set.  But it tells him more about their uninvited guest if Sam and Mom are cautiously inching their way here.  He faintly hears Cas's footsteps as well.  Almost certain he's joined the rest of his family. 

Dean continued to sip his coffee, enjoying the moment.  He's basking in the revelry because the sonuvabitch at his back, trying to silently come at him?  Obviously has no idea the mistake they made when they decided to actually attempt to pull this off.  And he's going to enjoy the look on their face when that realization dawns there.  Learn first hand why the name Winchester is what it is in this world.

For an onlooker, what happens next takes instants.  It's fast, efficient, and a hallmark of the Hunter's capable skills- the ones that have not only saved his adorable ass countless times, but had a hand in saving the friggin world.

He feigns going for the gun at his back as he turns and places his cup on the counter.  An onlooker would note the steam rising and find it as something of a portent.  His coffee-cupless hand continues on and has deftly found the skillet- it's in the air in fractions of seconds; the kind that border on inhuman speed.  The kind of speed a very mortal hunter needed to even be remotely a match.

It's also those same kind of seconds that halts the skillet from connecting with the intruder's temple.  Every muscle is taut, every reflex and instinct is controlled chaos.

It would beg the question from an audience- what would Dean Winchester see before him that would halt a preemptive strike like that?

 

When Sam, Mary, and Cas breach the open doorway leading into the kitchen, they see a particular Dean Winchester, mid-strike, and a flurry of emotions that are veiled as quickly as they try and crest on his countenance.  He timed his strike so that they'd arrive on or as their intruder would be headed to the ground.   Sam and Cas would later share in confidence with each other, they can't really recall a time they've ever witness Dean do that with his feelings.  And they know what approved emotions Dean allows on his features in certain situations.  They'll also share that it reminded them, for an instant, when he struggled holding the First Blade while bearing the Mark.  But even that did not compare.  Eventually, they will share this with Dean.

Dean's grip doesn't falter or waver on his improvised weapon.  His eyes narrow imperceptibly.  He knows the source of the clawing in his pit, but instinct demands more proof.

"Dean."

He knows that voice, hazily, because he's used to it having less softness.  His eyes flick to Mom, and the way she crumples momentarily, that tells him a helluvalot without the usual battery of tests.  When his eyes flick over to Sammy and sees him a mix of trying to steel up but a hint of betrayal take him- that tells him more.  He's certain Sammy thinks this is something a la what Lucifer tormented him with.  Dean doesn't even entertain the thought that Micheal, who fucking wore his dad when he was about his age, might have done something similar to his little brother at some point.  He flits his gaze to Cas, and he knows that look, he catches the nod.  Cas knows the Winchesters.  Cas has gone looking for this particular Winchester.  He looked for Mary when Dean told him about how Zachariah conjured her in order to use her as leverage.  Whether or not John himself avoided the eyes of Heaven on purpose or Heaven kept either of them from Cas's reach, they're never certain.  They didn't want to tip that hand by interrogating angels.  What they were sure of, was that there were enough in Heaven to merit the worry that they'd try and use what family they had, as leverage.  Cas even has a hard time finding Bobby after his help.  But he was an army of one and Heaven was vast.  The Winchesters have faith though.  When Cas promised to do something, it seemed as if Death itself had a hard time stopping him.

But that's all peripheral right now.

Right now John Winchester is standing in front of his eldest child; one that stopped a damn near fatal blow just instants from his temple.  He's wearing a smile and speaking softer than Dean can ever recall, making it one of those moments where he's faced with the knowledge that his Dad was capable of just that.  Softness.  He feels the grip on the handle tighten.  He feels the quiet fury burn away at the clawing.  He feels the cold tendrils that he was used to strangling him into compliance evaporate.  They char; and he takes some pleasure in thinking that they may have had some sentience that Dean inadvertently gave them.  That he was now unmaking.  He knows, deep where that fury is steadily approaching an apex, that there was a time he would have immediately dropped his weapon.  That he would brace himself for it being the wrong action.  But that consequence, he would calculate, would result in less broken things.  But that isn't happening.  He barely feels like it should.  Only that once upon a time, it would have. 

He would later tell Sam and Cas that they weren't the only ones thinking back to the Mark of Cain because much of what suddenly erupted within him had him thinking back to the moments he was fighting with everything to pull himself back from the brink the Mark took him to.  He wanted to make John Winchester **_hurt_**.

He feels like he's out of his body as he watches his Mom make her way to them.  As Sam and Cas flank and tentatively follow to provide back-up.  He sees a steely determination slowly harden Cas's form as he approaches.  He looks like the Cas he first met, but better.  His own entity, acting of his own volition, guided by what he believes to be right.  And Cas knows.  Cas knows what Dean's dad conjures for him, for Sam.  Hell, he might even know what it does to Mom now too.  For a moment, Dean doesn't know what to do with the idea that Cas would make his dad a non-threat.  That he'd put himself between them.  Then Dean suddenly wants to warn Cas.  Dad was self-taught.  Who the hell know where he's been all this time.  What he's picked up since he and Sammy watched him disappear at the Hell's Gate.  

' _If I pray...I can warn him_ '

And that's what he does.  He quickly sends Cas a prayer, urging him to be smart, to give John Winchester too much credit.  He knows its received when Cas taps his thumb twice against his leg.  It was something they'd discussed, a means to silently communicate.  Something almost everyone would pass as a nervous tick, and make sure as hell it's not the hand that you materialize your blade from.  The irritated glance he got from Cas and the amused chuckle that pulled out of Sam, which subsequently caused Mom to smile, was a fond and cherished memory.  So was he and Sam's mock betrayal when Mom told him to stop antagonizing Cas; reminding them he has literally millennia on them in terms of fighting.  Dean rolled his eyes.  The bruise on his arm from his mom's 'swat' lasted three days.  Cas refused to heal it.  'You'll live, Dean.'

'Yeah, my Pride might not.'

'It is long-touted to be a sin, Dean.'

'Don't get cardinal on me Cas.'

They basked in each others smiles.

 

Comforted that Cas is giving his dad a cautious berth, he looks to Sammy.  Sammy's weapon is faltering too, until Mom moves closer.  That's when he sees him steel over, even as he's looking for hints that this isn't Michael wearing Dad.  That this isn't some kind of Angel whatever, cause everyone in this family has had their fill of Angel drama.  He watches to see what Dean thinks must be an analogous fury to his own- hot enough that his brother's mettle is molten,  that he funnels it to energize the same skills that have also saved existence a few times.  Dean ignores his horror witnessing it.  He knows how Sam feels about his anger.  He knows how hard he works keeping that from taking over, from driving.  Their eyes lock.  Sammy tells him he's good in this moment, that he has it.  'Are you?'

Dean's answer is flitting his gaze back to John Winchester.  His mom's reaction informs them the most, Cas's confirms: this is actually John Winchester.  This all takes seconds.  The same seconds it takes for Mom to edge closer to John and look at him completely.  That's the image that completes in Dean's mind, to calculate the next steps.  That's the instinct that has no override right now.  Because until 'What the fuck' is answered satisfactorily, everyone in the kitchen is primed to neutralize and protect their family.  That thought gives temporary life to the cold tendril that persists.  Dean had known what John Winchester was capable of.  His grip tightens.  He feels the concern from Sammy and Cas.  He's damn near certain, he feels it from Mom too.

He watched his Dad turn, keeping his eyes on Dean until the last minute.  Dean brings the skillet down as his Mom gets closer, so it's out of the way.  He watches his Dad's countenance soften even more, and now Dean knows it's all over his face- that he's barely able to believe what he's seeing.  It soothes his fury a little, to slow its advance because he still has the skillet in his capable grasp.

The sound of skin, knuckle, and bone meeting the same on his dad's face will never leave him.  He's positive it's carved into his memory forever.  He watched, astounded a little he didn't see it coming, but being overwhelmed with pride at the same time.  The shock of the action is clearly reflected on every onlooker in the kitchen.  The punch is accompanied by a seething hiss whose fury cannot be understated,

"You sonuvabitch"

Dean watches John Winchester, **the** fucking John Winchester, retreat after recovering from the blow.  A blow all three of them know was not Mary Winchester's everything.  It was a skilled feint.  One she used at various points of a fight so her opponent thought they'd absorbed her best shot.  Fact is, John Winchester never met this Mary.  And he certainly never knew the Campbell that was now taking it out of his hide, figuratively speaking.  So far.  He's not even dodging hits in a manner that suggests he could stop the onslaught at anytime.  He is actively protecting himself, and he's _losing_.

Dean manages to glance to Sammy, to Cas, and they are equally surprised, proud, and in some level of shock.  Mom's temporarily disarmed them by doing something that on the surface should not have come as a surprise.  Dean remembers that same fury emanating from her when he started telling her about the hunting after Azazel took her from them.  After she saw him flinch from her when he did something during a hunt that could have gone better.  She hadn't even yelled.  But he was so used to being taken to task for screw-ups, he was horrified inside that he thought on some level, she would do it too.  Oh god, how could he?  She'd hurt him by leaving, by well, figuring herself out, by working with the Brits.  And he was pissed.  Until he realized it was something he would do.  For Sam.  For Her.  For Cas too, if he wanted to try and enjoy Earth outside of being the world's worst guardian as he often like to joke.  Until he realized, he was so much like her.   But she never...not like Dad.  

It was the way she said his name.  It had its own magic, he was certain.  The 'I'm sorry,' spilled from him before he could think and then he was angry again.  Because that was what he would sometimes say if he was sure it wouldn't bring more consequences that would break things. When he folded, it was when she put her hands on him and looked at him.  Hell, it felt like she looked through him.  He didn't want to close his eyes when she wiped the tear that skipped down his cheek.  He wanted to keep seeing that love.  Prove that the comfort there was real and for him.

She pulled him into the hug, then held him tightly.  Told him she was sorry.  And that she'd like to know what made him flinch, so she wouldn't do anything to take him there again.  Dean didn't want to speak ill of John.  He remembered their young selves.  He didn't want to destroy that too.  She must have sensed his hesitation, so she reminded him she read John's journal.  She could fill in most of the blanks.  She'd rather it be him and Sammy.  But the only thing she wanted of him right now, was to tell her what took him somewhere he didn't want to be.  So she'd never be the reason it happened.

He held her tightly.  Because Mary Winchester was a lot of things to him.  And having her back tore down some of the mythos that lifted her up and reminded him she was just as human as he, as Sammy, as Cas had been once upon a time.  Mary Winchester was also robbed of many things.  He remembers Cas telling him that, after she came back to help Cas find them, when Dean struggled with processing she had started working with the Brits, but left her sons in the cold about it.  He's remembering Cas's words, his observations when he worked with Mary all that time.  As she inadvertently mentored him in hunting, and honestly, there were fewer folks that would be a better mentor.  He remembered Cas sharing his observation that Azazel robbed her of moments like the one she initiated now- being there for her children.  So he finds himself OK being able to give some of that back.  And he starts to tell her of his not-childhood.

He doesn't even begin to really cover it.  He starts with some examples of what happened when he failed in John's eyes, with respect to Sammy.  He doesn't know what it is at first that radiates from her, because it is betwixt with comfort.  When she holds him tighter, he feels that.  When she pulls back so she can look him directly in the eye, he didn't know he was capable of breaking in the way he breaks when she tells him, 'It wasn't your fault.  John should have never put that on you...'

He recognizes the fury under it all.  And he instantly knows it's not for him.  He must have worn his surprise on his face because she softens and pulls him back into the hug. 

'Sweetheart, it was never your fault.'

His soul cried.  She held him until his stomach grumbled so obnoxiously that she offered up they could continue talking after eating something, sensing he'd stay like that until his stomach started breaking itself down.  Some time later, she and Sammy did the same thing, where he filled in blanks.

The scene before him in the kitchen, taking in the blows Mom's throwing and landing, it had him remember that moment.  It's because his mom isn't even close to him anymore and he can still feel that fury.  Dean barely hears the verbal onslaught, but it becomes quite clear where the brothers' instincts, their skills, where a large majority of it came from.  If there had been any doubt before, there was none now.

Mary towers over John, rage pouring off her in such a way it had him believe it would become tangible at any moment.  They all watch as he slowly gets up, as she notedly does not allow him to put distance between them.

"We should go somewhere, where we're not gonna wreck the room."

"Here's just fine."

John nods and straightens.  The respite is temporary.  Because he's on his ass again in seconds and Dean hears him beg for Mary to relinquish her hold.  This was clearly not going the way he had envisioned.

That's when Dean realizes Mom's looking at him.

"Dean has something he wants to say.  And you're going to listen.  No talking, just listen.  Because there's going to be a test after.  Something I learned you were fond of doing."

For emphasis she adjusts her hold, he winces.

"So does Sam.  Same 'House Rules.'  Understand?"

And both brothers see that he does, when realization dawns on his features, when those features pale hearing 'House Rules.'

Dean's not trusting his eyes right now, because he's almost certain he sees shame.  He and Sam would talk about it.  Cause Dean sure as hell never seen shame on John Winchester's countenance.  Regret sure.  But Shame?  No.

They'll also talk about how at one point they felt sorry for Dad, for an instant, because while they knew how fierce a fighter their Mom was, they were basking in seeing her fight that way for the children they never got to be.  For the unwavering hold she maintained when he said he did the best he could with her gone.  The words she parried with? Reminders of the promises he made before Dean was ever brought into this world.   That their children survived because they weren't just Winchesters, they were Campbells.  And the first monster they had to to deal with, was a vengeance-driven John Winchester.

Those words were what led them to her room, the one she crashed in when she came by the bunker for a hunt assist, but more often when she was in Kansas, she would just spend time there.  Sammy knocks, they ask in unison if they can come in.  When they open the door to enter, they see her instantly button up emotionally.  For them.  They knew, cause they'd seen when she let that guard down for them.  But right now? She must have thought seeing Dad drug up a lot.  She opened her arms to them.  But they knew what she said, while a truth for her right now, it had to hurt.  She loved him.  Loves? him.  It had to be complicated.  And while Cas volunteered to watch over the morose Winchester in a room far from theirs, they were certain he didn't need a guard.  Mary was probably always an efficient and skilled hunter.  They watched her break him down in only a handful of steps.  It'd be the story they would often discuss by themselves, breaking it down.  Because it would still have them in awe.  Because that was the Mary Winchester deserving of mythos.  That was the Mary Winchester the Brits would do well to steer clear from.  Both soft and unyielding   Resolute and flexible.  Fierce and gentle.  She loved him, but he had hurt their children.  And she paved the way for her sons to tell John the things they found themselves needing to say but resigned themselves to the fact that they would never be able to do so.

They inch closer, as her arms open wider for them and they speak in union, "Mom..." 

Instead of letting her embrace wash over them, the brothers pulled her into a tight hug.

"It wasn't your fault."

They speak in unison again.  They hadn't missed her expressions, the powerful emotions she let radiate from her, or possibly more accurately the ones so powerful that after locking them down, they could still feel them when they had those talks.  They both surmised that opening herself to be a safe harbor for them to talk about their father after she died, had likely led to her feeling what happened was her fault.  But they each know the price of deals and the lives of loved ones.  That Azazel took her and they had no way to know it was because of a deal years later; that that knowledge never survived to impart its lesson.  Story of their hunting lives.  Hell, what they could do if they knew at certain points in their lives what they would know later.  How the outcomes of things could have been drastically changed.  But they can't.  Deep down, neither will admit that that is one good thing the Carver Edlund books could impart.

She squeezes them tight.  They feel the wetness of her silent tears as she does, holding fast she she rubs their backs, as her hands move to the the side of their face they're closest to to caress it.  Swiping at tears gently, as she has done in nights prior.

"I love you boys.  I am _so **proud**_ of you."

She infuses those words with every ounce of love and pride she can muster, then digs deep for at least fifty percent more.  She knows all too well now, the importance of them hearing that.

Somewhere, a one Robert 'Bobby' Singer is roughly wiping away tears. **

 

 

** _I was there.  Ole Bobby Singer's a a big ole softie.  Pass it on._


End file.
